taking off your clothes
by adnarel
Summary: CHAPTER FIVE UP hermione was raped and decides to die, can Severus convince her to live? How can he convince her that life has something to offer. . . to both of them?
1. chapter one:salvation achieved

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Disclaimer: Do I look like JKR? No? Good, because I'm not her and Harry Potter belongs not to me || shrugs || never will. . .

A/n: first SSxHG fic, so be nice please! Flames are welcome but give me a valid reason || WHY || I SUCK, ok? Don't tell me I suck and not justify your answer. I'm very open to advice and comments, so feel free. 

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I am begging!

SUMMARY: Severus and Hermione. Hermione's been raped, and decides to die, knowing she's got nothing to live for. Can Severus change that? What can he do? How will he convince to Hermione that life still has something to offer. . .to both of them?

TAKING OFF YOUR CLOTHES 

I have lost so much in that war. My friends, my family. . . my beauty.

What I have left is a scarred, almost soul-less being. Have I told you? Scars covered my body. My body that has seen so much, so much that I don't want to recall, but whose scars show themselves each time I reach back into memory.

They're imprinted onto my body, all over me. . . everywhere on me.

__

It was dark, I was naked. 

The bed I was on was warm and I shivered, fearing the heat of the body beside me. I was crying, hot tears of indignation ran down my cheeks. . . tears of shame. 

'oh, Harry. . I'm so sorry. . .'I whispered to my dead lover's soul, already resting in heaven. 

He had died in the war, but Voldemort's Death Eaters were still at large, still powerful. . .still feared. I was still in the Order and one of my duties was to capture them and bring them directly to Azkaban. I was captured instead. 

I was taken somewhere, blindfolded and gagged, I was brought to this room. And I was used over and over again. 

I screamed, kicked, bit and spat on them, my body being covered in wounds they inflicted to keep me quiet. I kept on screaming. My body hurt from their abuse, they were laughing.

The darkness had covered me, the darkness had taken me and I screamed into it, feeding it my sorrow, my shame, my disgust. I wanted to shed my body and I wanted to scream, cry, run, **die**. I wanted to see Harry, to see his face and tell me it was a dream, but he turned out to be the dream. I was still there, in the darkness of that black portal room, screaming at the newest attacker.

Blood gushed out of my wounds as they used me again, I screamed in agony, flailing my arms sideways, searching for something to hit the red-headed man on top of me. Nothing. He began covering my body with trails of disgusting kisses. I screamed, he reached my inner thigh and stroked me again and again. I looked away as another pain took me. 

I lost my voice, but screamed more as the blood-splattered sheets around me pooled around my kicking legs. I was left alone, my arms and feet bound, I was positioned so that I was exposed all the time. My arms were bound to the bed-posts and my feet were spread far away from each other. I was shaking. 

The bed covers were splattered with dried blood, my hair was sticking to my face. I felt so weak, so vulnerable. So alone, but took refuge in the peace of the silent night, empty of the tears and screams I shed. My suffering had faded into the night. 

I don't know how long I was there. The men kept coming. I gave up on struggling, lost in the darkest corner of my mind, trying to find Harry somewhere. I tried to find him and Ron and Ginny, my bestfriends. I tried to find a friendly face, tried to burn their smiling face into my blank, staring eyes, but I failed. All I can see are the hundreds of hungry eyes that kept turning my face to meet theirs in a slobbering kiss. 

I was rescued. 

__

I saw the gray outline of a door on my right side, where the bed ended and I saw the floor stretch toward the timid gray light beyond it. 

I kept staring at the door, willing for a savior to enter. I prayed and wished and prayed and willed. I kept hoping and hoping that the gray light that seemed bright from my black void would open into startling brilliancy sometime.

I was still wishing in my mind. My lips were bruised and cracked. I had lost my spirit, it had departed from me to find some hope. My blank eyes were still staring at the door. 

'oh please. .' I pleaded again. 'please let someone come.' And someone did. 

What came next was surprising. Through the blank of my tear-stained and red-swollen eyes, I saw brilliant white light. So bright it illuminated me. I tried to see clearly, blinking several times and brining a small part of my mind back to consciousness. I could make out an outline of a tall man heading towards me with his wand raised. A heavy weight on top of me that hadn't noticed suddenly disappeared as the tall shadow approached. 

My eyes were beginning to turn to darkness, my eyelids were slowly closing. I couldn't see anything, not that I have, and my mind became perfectly blank. I felt nothing. My aching body disappeared and I became light, floating through. I was dimly aware of someone. . . carrying me in their arms, a cloak draped over me. I could feel my hundred wounds screaming in protest as they were reopened, even with the greatest care this person gave me. I could feel my body screaming and flailing even as my mind began to wonder away to its memories. I could feel myself resisting, screaming out over and over again. 

I could feel myself being hushed like a child, and my hand groping for the person's face. Subconsciously, I recognized his features perfectly, having seen him and known him for the longest time. 

I could smell him from the familiar, yet faint smell, he emitted. My body relaxed. My mind gratefully rested, giving up its aches and burdens and shame as it collapsed from exhaustion. 


	2. chapter two: a lot of thinking

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Disclaimer: if I said I owned Harry Potter, I'll be in big trouble for plagiarism, so, for both our sakes, I'll say I don't own Harry Potter. Peace all.

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CHAPTER TWO: A LOT OF THINKING

It was early evening when he stepped from the shadows bearing a shivering burden into the thresholds of salvation.

He walked over and rapped at the door of Number 12, Grimauld Place, that will serve as his charge's resting place. The post-war violence was still on-going and no hospital was safe from Death Eaters, no hospital would **be** safe for a member of the Order. Albus had told him to bring her straight to headquarters. It was only logical. Here she would be healed. In body, at most, he thought savagely.

He tapped his foot impatiently, staring down at the girl he held in his arms, shivering lightly. He should be shivering too, out there, in the heart of the cold December winds, but he did not. True, he had given the girl his cloak, but she needed it most now. He only hoped that she wasn't feeling the bite of winter. An ill timed disease would not help her situation. She had a long way to go before full recovery, and he was talking only of her physical well being.

He sighed, his breath taking shape before him, into a translucent cloud that appeared in an instant and vanished into the air in another.

He rapped again on the door. He heard his angry rap bouncing about inside the headquarters, echoing down the hallways and empty rooms. Silently, he pleaded for that Dobby, the houself whose services the headmaster that acquired to take care of her with him, to be up and about. The girl needed healing charms and potions and. . . basic signs of affection and care if she was going to recover. . . in **any **way.

This time, the rhythmic pounding of his foot on the cement stoop occupied his thoughts for a moment or so, before he turned his mind to more important matters.

This girl needed healing draughts and dreamless sleep potions. She needed them in great quantities, he smirked to himself, Albus was a genius! Employing the help of a spy and a Potions Master to take care of a girl. At first, he was dubious. Why should he? There were countless other members of the Order who would take up the job. Unfortunately, they were all dispatched and busy. . . at some point. . . and Albus needed someone who knew how the Death Eaters thought, how they tortured and, most importantly, where they tortured. He had been hesitant to accept at first, knowing Albus, he was sure he was going to become the new favorite tracker. He had not been sarcastic. When he found his new mission, he had quickly decided that he _would_ rather be ' new-favorite-tracker' than a nanny.

His thoughts raced over memories that made him cringe in horror.

__

"Yes, Headmaster?" he answered politely, walking into Dumbledore's study with his customary billow of the black cloak.

"Ahh, Severus, welcome!" Albus said, greeting him kindly and motioning for him to take a seat.

He gladly obliged. Turning to face the older man, he asked "Headmaster, I have new orders from the Order, have I?"

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes only brightened.

"Actually, you are correct, Severus."

He sighed audibly. "Then, with all due respect, what is it, Headmaster, I do not wish to spend more time playing word games with you, so I will be blunt. . . for a change." He scowled.

"Yes, Severus, always to the point, I see." He paused, his mood and tone becoming grave. "Miss Granger has been dispatched, as you know, to find out remaining Death Eaters and report back to headquarters. Unfortunately, she has been missing for some time now."

He leaned in closer, moving to the edge of his seat to hear Dumbledore's account of Miss Granger's disappearance, much like a young lad would, upon hearing his favorite tale being retold in all the glory it should posses.

"She has been captured, Severus, and, I believe, being tortured. Find her." Dumbledore has never before used those two words in one sentence all by themselves. He had always sounded like a wise old man who was requesting something out of the simple logic in the task, never before has he seen Dumbledore **command** someone so bluntly. Ahh, but Dumbledore's bluntness was his fault, after all.

"Very well, Headmaster." He stood and swept out of the room.

And he kept all his doubts to himself, still astounded at the Headmaster's forward. . . command. Suddenly, as he swept down to the dungeon, it dawned on him that the Headmaster was worried, anxious, for Miss Granger's well being. And suddenly, as well, Severus hurried, being infected with the Headmaster's worry as well. There was always the possibility for the worst.

And Severus feared for Miss Granger, that **that** was exactly what awaited her.

It was a few hours later, when he was away from Hogwarts, already seeking out Miss Granger, did he receive an owl from Dumbledore, instructing him further.

__

Severus,

I am sorry.

You left so soon and looked so determined, I was not given the chance to explain further.

When you find Miss Granger, please take her at once to headquarters, you are to treat her there until she has healed.

Do not worry, Severus-----

At this point, he was sure Dumbledore already knew him too well since he could discern his mood so quickly. He looked livid, he forced the anxiety to be replaced by anger, boiling, hot, destroying anger. He was no nanny! Although, to anyone who might have seen him then, he looked ready to kill, he himself was ready to die. How, for the love of Merlin, was he supposed to heal Miss Granger by himself?! If truly she had been, and is being, tortured, she would no doubt have many wounds and hurts [ now he took into consideration both Miss Granger's physical and emotional, not to mention, mental, well being ] and to be placed with the task on healing her alone? What was this daft old man thinking?

-------- your help will be at headquarters when you have found Miss Granger. Dobby the houself will be most helpful, I trust, with Miss Granger's healing.

Yours,

Albus Dumbledore

He had searched thoroughly, having to torture a few times to gain necessary information, but never resorting to killing anyone. A feat, he deemed, commendable enough to make him candidate for Order of Merlin, First Class.

Well, Order of Merlin, Second Class, at the least.

Searching for her had not been such a difficult ordeal, merely tiring. He first thought and tried to recall what horrors the Death Eaters would most likely inflict upon a young spy. There were the forbidden curses, but those, when too overly used, would eventually kill the spy. [ that, or render them as the intellectual equal of a bowl of clam pudding. ] There were other tortures for spies, varying with the circumstances when the spy was captured. Rape was one of the favorites, because it broke the spirit, and gave pleasure to the Death Eaters. Though, granted, the Death Eaters gained all the pleasure they wanted in killing, but, the pain they inflicted would bleed and shrivel the soul. Oh, they loved this one to bits.

Severus hoped though that with Miss Granger, this was not the case. Unfortunately, Severus was incorrect and his hopes were dashed when finally, he found Miss Granger, and saved her. Though, Severus thought with growing dismay, she might never recover.

The door finally opened and Severus walked in, glared at Dobby who flinched visibly, walked up the stairs to the quarters that he knew were prepared for Miss Granger and set her gently on the bed. Dobby followed him upstairs and he paled at the sight of Miss Granger, lying there, cold as death, hardly breathing.

Severus took out his wand and with a small wave, transfigured his cloak into a suitable dress for Miss Granger. Then, he turned to Dobby, still glaring.

"You will fetch some warm water in a basin and you will wipe Miss Granger's face, carefully. You will feed her three meals a day, and you will put exactly three drops of this---" Severus took out a small vial of bluish-white liquid from his robes " into her water or juice. It is a healing draught, Dobby, and it will heal her cuts and aches. When she wakes, perhaps three days from now, you will call on me and I will see to it that she well fed and any other hurt will be mended. If Miss Granger desires any dreamless sleep potion, you will call me. Are my orders UNDERSTOOD?"

Having instructed Dobby on how to care for Miss Granger, Severus left the room, walked down the hall and into his own room.

He could hear Dobby shuffling about, readying the food for Miss Granger.

Severus was exhausted. He lay down on the bed but found that sleep was no where near him, and he could not sink into his black void. Restless, he lay there, thinking and turning things over in his mind, Miss Granger's limp form constantly touching his thoughts.

He sympathized with her, knowing full well what she was going through in the dark recesses of her injured reality. She was experiencing hell, still being alive when you wished you had died in your sleep.

He knew that she was brooding, away from the mortal contacts and physical world that was calling to her. He knew that right now, as Dobby was gently washing her face with a warm cloth, and wiping away the grim, the dried sweat and tears and saliva that had been poured on her face, she was inside—somewhere, reeling from that simple contact. Somewhere, she did not know where the difference lay between a violent assault and a caring touch. She had lost grip, Severus knew, and he only felt compassion.

Sadly, he could not show it. A battle was raging inside him also, even as his dreamless sleep potion washed over him, bringing him on the shores of his black beach, behind a curtain of steady-pouring gray rain.

He did not want to put down his façade at all. He felt compassion stir in his heart, though he knew that he had long ago squashed that emotion. Most of it, anyway. When he had become a Death Eater, to have a conscience was a known weakness, therefore, he threw his away, throwing away his heart with it.

He could not stand it anymore. When Severus woke up, he stood up and walked the few meters that separated him from his charge. She was still asleep.

He bent down, and frowned as he saw her forehead crease slightly and her slightly opened mouth seem to utter a scream that was followed by a hollow, numb and resolute silence.

He felt his heartstrings being pulled, wrenched from within him as he watched her move her head, turning it slightly to the left, as a matching moan escaped her lips.

She was so broken.

Severus wanted so much to comfort the girl, but he knew that he could not. Not now. He would have to wait. He would have to wait till she could trust him enough to let him come near, but right now, he was content to watch in the shadows outside her darkened sphere of subconscious reality, waiting for the first stage of healing to claim her: acceptance.

__

She was running to him. He was waiting, Harry was waiting for her.

Harry. Good Harry. Understanding, patient, loving, Harry. He had never rushed her, never wanted to take her before her time. Never wanted to touch her, more than what their first love conscience allowed him to. He would listen for hours, just waiting to give her a reassuring smile.

He was at the end of a familiar corridor in Hogwarts, waiting with arms out-stretched for her. She was running to him, ready to tell him all about her sufferings, her ordeal. . . her used body and the pain she held within her. She wanted to tell Harry that she felt torn, that now, she did not want to be touched, that the warmth of even his familiar fingers on her face would scare her, scar her and leave her to dream that night about the countless villains she gave pleasure to. She flinched. Rag-doll of the enemy.

When she got to him, she stopped before jumping into his arms, stood frozen on the ground, rooted to the spot, her eyes disbelieving at what they beheld.

It was not Harry that she was looking at, not the familiar green eyes that stood out from his mat of hair, not the lopsided grin he gave her after their long talks, of which he valiantly fought [ and won ] his battle against impending sleep only to give her that innocent grin. The one that told her he could never lie to anyone. It was someone else who wore a look of great concern, someone who made no effort to take her into his arms and comfort her. She guessed she would not let him anyway. His cold exterior was gone, replaced by sad eyes that have seen too much of the world, too much pain, and he bore it all, unable to scream it back out at the world, being trapped behind an impenetrable wall of solid-ice. He stood behind that wall, silent, cold also, and worn from the times he wanted to escape, only to find himself fighting against his own defense-army that prevented him from leaving, prevented him from freedom and kept him in sanity.

She saw a man that bore a look of understanding effortlessly, who have waited a lifetime to be able to share his own chaotic emotions to someone who, possibly, might have their own. He had waited for someone like her who suffered enough to understand him, and he showed himself to her in that dream, told her all this in one look.

He also said more: **I am also here**.

Severus Snape.

She did not know why, but his presence there in her mind's eyes was comforting, even though he also existed beyond that.

TBC


	3. chapter three:screw fate

disclaimer: See the first two chapters.

**disclaimer: 'My Last Breath' by EVANESCENCE from their album 'FALLEN'** ****

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THANKS TO ALL MY REVIEWERS AND I HOPE THAT THIS CHAPTER WILL BE SATISFYING. I tried so very hard, and I loved writing this. ENJOY

TAKING OFF YOUR CLOTHES

CHAPTER THREE: SCREW FATE

It was night. I was saved and I knew that my body had healed. I was alive but I did not want to be. I had wanted to die, but I was spared.

As my consciousness grew, I opened my eyes to see blurred shapes, silhouettes of objects in the dark. I blinked several times, trying to adjust my eyes to the semi-darkness. Moonlight was spilling on the floor to my left. A door was to my right, and a fireplace was directly in front of me. There was a chair to my left, obscuring my view of the windows, and a man was sitting there. Half of him was on the chair, but his chest and head were resting beside me, his hand clasping mine tightly. I stifled a gasp quickly, as the moonlight illuminated the raven-black head and knew who it was: Severus Snape.

I knew it was him who took me away from. . .

No. Not yet, I did not want to relive anything just yet, but it was too late. Tears were forming in my eyes, clouding my vision even more, and my body was racked with sobs. I was shaking slightly, and I leaned into my pillows, turning my face so that my tears would fall on it, and, I thought, to suppress my sobs. I did not want Snape to wake up, but all of me was shaking. I was remembering. All of a sudden, as my mind reeled to accept what my body had gone through, as the memories poured in, I felt a sharp pain in my skull. I did not want to cry out, but the pain was next to unbearable. My body was still shaking, and the hand in Snape's grasp was shaking slightly. I bent all my will for it to stop, I did not want to wake him.

I did not want him to question me about my ordeal. I did not want him to pry into my mind, to bury those memories, driving them back, deeper and deeper into me. I wanted to let them out, I wanted to destroy them. I wanted them to be obliterated from my being. I wanted to be the Hermione I was before. . .

I did not want to use a pensieve. My thoughts were miraculously clear as I made my decisions, even as the pain grew more and more with each ounce of effort I put into thinking clearly. Using a pensieve would mean that someone would have access to those memories, and I did not want that. I wanted them to be destroyed. I wanted to be pure again. I wanted. . . I wanted Harry to hold me. . . I wanted to destroy myself. . . I wanted to. . . I wanted to erase myself, my past. I had to do that, and the only way of achieving it would be to destroy myself. I wanted to destroy this body, I did not want to be in this body.

The pain reached its glorious new heights, and, at one point, I knew my skull would crack. I felt, with my dulled senses, blood trickling out of my nose, out of my eyes.

I wanted to destroy myself. . .

The realization dawned quickly, and I stopped trying to grasp at my thoughts, stopped trying to reach any twisted logical conclusion, but the pain did not recede. I panicked. Gripping the sheets with my free hand, I tried to control my hysteria. The pain was trapped inside me, my head was throbbing, and finally, when I felt I could not draw breath without pain, I let out a scream that tore my insides, that rent the peace-filled night like a swift rising sun, blood-red and pain-filled.

I saw, from the corner of my eye, Snape, startled. His hands quickly smoothed out my sweat-drenched hair out of my face, and tried to look into my clouded eyes. He took my temperature, and I saw his pale face in the moonlight. His black eyes were a stark contrast to his pallid complexion.

I was still in agony, as I tried to grasp a new idea. The pain was inside me, the pain, the torture, the memories burned into my flesh. **They would forever haunt me**. I will always remember how I betrayed Harry ten-times over, and my mind reeled in numb sorrow.

I screamed again.

I saw Snape's eyes still locked on my face, but I was lost, trying still to comprehend. . .

The pain was inside me. It was the personification of the memories that I loathe, each kiss those pieces of shit ever placed upon my body was a hundred whip-lashes to my naked skin. I searched and found that I wanted to destroy the pain that was the personification of my memories of torture, and to destroy those memories only meant that I had to destroy myself. I would commit suicide.

The pain subsided a little.

I felt hot tears of shame, determination and guilt rush down my face. My body was writhing, entangling itself in the sheets of my comfortable bed. Somebody was wiping my face. Who. . . ?

Dobby?

The house elf? I saw Snape tell Dobby something. His eyes never left my face, and my suddenly clearing vision. Dark pools of comprehension was showing themselves. Snape had gone through torture himself, but he survived it.

My mind was still aching, my skull still felt as though it was splitting open and the pain remained still.

Snape survived years of torture. He survived years of labor for the Order, but he still was surviving. No matter. I wish I could have laughed. I decided that I did not want the pain, that I did not want the memories, that I did not **want** the compassion those dark eyes could show. I did not **want** LIFE. Snape had survived because he was still needed. I believe that he wanted to die, that he still wanted to die and **would** have died if others were not dependent on him. I wanted to laugh.

Nobody needed me now. The war was over, and we won. I could die now. My last task, as a tribute to Harry and Ron and all others who died in the war. . . I was going to come home to them. All of a sudden, I pitied Snape.

The pain was throbbing again, as I thought about my decision and my resolve hardened.

But how? I wondered silently, letting Dobby wash my be-grimed face with a warm towel. How?

The pain was still there, and I imagined, it would never leave till I had taken my own life. I felt my eyes dropping off to sleep. Before I fell to the mercy of those dreams where I would, if possible, meet Harry and my friends Ron and Ginny, where I would reencounter every assailant that visited me, I took one last look at Snape.

His face had left mine, and he was looking at Dobby. He was saying something, but I was still weak that I could not make out the words he said. When he turned back to me, his brow was sparkling, and I realized that he had been sweating. He lifted his hand and put it on my cheek, carefully brushing away the last tear that escaped my eye with his thumb. And I saw one of his own spill down his cheek.

Suddenly, I did not pity him so much.

And just before I lost consciousness, I heard a voice out of nowhere, closer and closer it was coming. I realized, with a start, that it was Snape. . . singing.

Hold on to me Love,

You know I can't stay long

All I wanted to say was I love you. . .

He paused.

And I'm not afraid

Can you hear me?

Can you feel me in your arms?

Holding my last breath

Safe inside myself

Are all my thoughts of you

Sweet raptured light

It ends here

Tonight.

I felt two soft lips pressing themselves on my forehead, after the song ended, and the pain throbbing peacefully in my skull and heart subsided a little bit more.

The first thing I became aware of was the sunlight hitting my eyelids. My sleep had been strangely rejuvenating, giving me back the strength I lost when I last awoke. It was clearly morning, or afternoon, and I felt the, by now, familiar pain in my mind. I opened my eyes.

The chair next to me was empty. I felt slightly disappointed. Dobby suddenly tapped me gently on my right shoulder.

"Miss?"

I managed a weak smile.

"Dobby." My voice was cracked, parched from lack of use.

"Will the Miss want some food?"

I shook my head slowly. Dobby fluffed my pillow, though it did not need it, and beamed up at me.

"Dobby hopes that Miss feels better after last night. The Professor hoped you would wake today. He told me to tell the Miss that you are completely physically healed, and that he wanted to talk to Miss when. . . if you woke up."

I nodded, and with a last pillow-fluff, he walked out of the room, telling me to ring a little silver bell if I needed him.

I turned my mind to different matters: My suicide. I was completely healed, Professor Snape said so. I wanted a quick death, I knew I wanted to spend as little time here as possible, getting away from the pain, the memories was my greatest goal. I wanted to die. I looked at the azure blue sky outside my window. There weren't any bars blocking them. It would be ideal if I could just jump. . .

But what if I lived? Perhaps I did not die quickly? I would experience more pain, and I did not want that. I wanted to die quickly and with the least amount of pain possible. I looked down at my wrists. I knew that once, they had been covered with purple and blue bruises, but now, they were back to the creamy white they originally once were. . . just as pure.

I could cut my wrists, but that took time and most likely someone would come to check on me from time to time. No, too risky. I scanned the room, trying to find something that would be able to help me take my own life. I looked to the bed-side table. There was the silver bell Dobby gave me, and a huge jug and a goblet full of potion.

I reached over and took the goblet, smelling it curiously. It was a dreamless sleep potion, suddenly, I knew how. If it worked with Muggles and their overdose cases, it would work with wizards and powerful potions.

I looked at the jug, judging it to hold enough for nine to ten large goblet fulls of dreamless sleep potion. Drink it all. It would work, and, I would not feel the pain if there would be any. I smiled, very satisfied and leaned back into my pillows.

One down one to go. I closed my eyes, setting the goblet back on top of the bedside table.

I turned my thoughts, and my aching mind to Snape. I knew that Dumbledore ordered Snape to look and rescue me. It was only logical, as he was head of the order. But why Snape? The answer came quickly, being as obvious as day: Snape was a member of the Death Eaters. If Dumbledore knew about my assignment, and my schedule. He sent Snape out to look for me, because there was a huge possibility that **I** would be captured by the Death Eaters. Snape would have been the most obvious choice: he already thought like them, he would know where I was.

He could also take care of me, I thought, he **was** potions master.

"You're a damn genius, Headmaster." I said aloud.

"Yes, I would have to agree." I opened my eyes.

Snape was sitting beside me, on the usual seat by my bed, his legs were folded and he was, as usual, wearing black to accompany his black orbs for eyes.

"Miss Granger, Dumbledore asked me to take care of you."

"I know." He looked at me, not at all surprised.

"Yes, I suspected that you would figure out why. He will come on Saturday to check up on you, three days from now. I have healed you, as you slept, of all physical maladies." He grimaced. "Unfortunately, that is as far as my God-given talents allow me to heal. It is my understanding, Miss Granger, that Dumbledore assigned **me** to be your. . . . rescuer. . . for two reasons. One, you already know and the other. . . . because he believes I can help you in more ways than one."

I stared back at him, and noticed that his jaw was clenched.

"I don't want to be helped."

The coldness of my voice startled even me, but it was true enough. I knew exactly what I needed: **death**. I did **not** need Snape to tell me what to do. I did **not** want to help. I did **not** want to live. I suppose this is the part of the movie when the heroine would start crying on her lover's shoulder. I looked at him, and tried to find the irony in the situation. I wanted to **die**. The pain in my mind, and a dull beat of my heart made me harden my resolve further. I did **not** want to live.

"I know."

His voice was softer than what I suspected it would be. He leaned in closer, and I on reflex, backed away slightly. I heard him sigh.

"Miss Granger, I know that it is hard--" I cut him off with a voice colder and devoid of any emotion.

"Don't you DARE tell me its HARD." he stopped immediately and backed away, leaning into his chair. "Because I **know** it is."

He stood up.

"I am sorry. I should not force you into talking to me." he grimaced and left.

I swallowed hard, and my breathing became ragged. I realized that Snape might pose a threat to me, he might convince me not to go through with what I am planning to do. I **must** stay away.

I realized, with dread, that Snape might succeed in deterring me from my plans. His hard, cold eyes showed it all, and I remembered my dream. He **had** suffered as much. . . maybe more. . . than I had. He, of all people, could understand. I did not want him to. I should avoid him, I decided, as I allowed my eyes to drop. I must die before he convinces me.

Perhaps, I opened my eyes to look at the jug, I could do it now. . .

I started to lean towards the jug, but stopped myself. I had another task, before I could die. I had to say goodbye. I smirked. Who else **was** there to say goodbye to? Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna and my parents had died in the war. Tonks, Lupin, Professor McGonagall and the other Weasleys were on different assignments. It would be long before they could come. Too long, and I wanted to die. . . I had to die. . . the pain gave a nasty throb.

There was Dumbledore. I could say goodbye to Dumbledore, and tell him all my pain and all about my decisions. I had to wait for Saturday to die.

I sighed.

No matter, three days would hardly matter. I sank further into my pillows, and remember, against my will, Snape's song.

Holding my last breath

Safe inside myself

Are all my thoughts of you

Sweet raptured light

It ends here, tonight.

Snape paced his room.

He was worried. Miss Granger had talked. . . he had never heard her use that tone before. **He** had never heard **anyone** use that tone before. Complete surrender, it seemed. He saw the look in her eyes. She was determined to do whatever it was she planned.

That scared him. He scowled.

He had glimpsed her mind. An unsettling numb, and cold had settled there. He was sure of it, she was planning something, and he also sensed a great pain. Sensed it rather than seen it through the cloud that covered her mind, a barrier she had established.

He tried to think, tried to guess, tried to imagine what Miss Granger was planning.

Suddenly, he stopped his pacing. His black robes gathered at his feet, a sensed shadow. He needed to find out what she was up to, but, in order to do that, he had to touch upon memories that would hurt him considerably.

A split-second's indecision, and he strode over to his wardrobe. He opened the door and took out a carefully covered pensieve.

Picking up his wand, he selected a memory and, with a deep breath closed his eyes. . .

He felt the cold air smacking his face, as he stood in the dimly lit dungeons.

He saw himself, walking down a corridor, a bright light at the end, as torches burned the way, guiding.

He reached the end of the corridor, and he heard the fresh screams of pain and agony that echoed out of the room. He pushed open the door. The room was small, and bright. Different men were there, all gathered around a bed in the center. It was stifling, and there was a mingled scent of blood and sweat in the room. The men were naked, wands in their hands were tightly gripped. A girl was screaming in their shadows

Snape saw himself disrobe, an odd gleam in his eyes, as he parted the crowd, making his way to the girl in the center. He choked.

The girl had bright eyes, bright reflecting the lights above her. Her eyes were glistening with tears and her cheeks were flushed red. Her legs were tied to the separate bed posts and her hands were bound together, above her. Her eyes were wide. She was naked also. She was shaking. She was terrified. He bent down, licked her tears away, amidst a jeering and clapping audience. He rubbed her breasts and moved down. . .

Snape flinched. This was gruesome to watch.

He kissed her, biting her tongue and cupping her breasts with his hands.

Snape almost closed his eyes, but he did not. He strained his ears as he watched, as he heard her pleas as he drove into her with force. Snape was close to tears as he heard her scream out in agony, as she beat her bound hands against his chest, her tears overflowing as sobs escaped her. She was crying. The hardest part. .

He looked into her eyes, and his mute conscience nudged him. He saw her soul breaking, her heart was shattered and her honey colored eyes pleaded for the death for a hundred men. He drove into her again.

Snape watched on as he put on his robes and left. He did not even flinch.

He returned his pensieve, with a shaking hand, but he knew what Miss Granger was planning: Suicide. The girl in his memory almost looked like her, the similarities lay in their broken souls. She was crying out to death. He was going to answer.

Snape found that he was shaking.

TBC

"


	4. chapter four: the terrible pain of the h...

**Disclaimer: see chapter 1  
  
Thanks to all that reviewed, specially Noctivague. I did my best to remain in character as possible. Also, his fic will not have any overly "romantic" scenes between Severus and Hermione. There's romance, subtly mixed in with angst. Also, this is 5 pages long, damn, I wanted to make it 7 but I couldn't. I did my best.  
  
FLAMES OK, really, just tell me WHY I suck.  
  
PLEASE READ AND REVIEW  
**  
CHAPTER FOUR: THE TERRIBLE PAIN OF THE HAUNTED SEVERUS SNAPE  
  
She stepped out into the sunlight and started to walk down the street.  
  
The pain inside her was throbbing, never letting her rest from its unrelenting ache, but it did not worsen. It almost seemed as if she had made peace with it, with the resolution to die. She still had the drained, weary look of a person who has only just recovered from a terrible illness, and her clothes were baggy, hanging loosely off her too slender frame. She had bags below her sunken eyes and her hair was a shaggy mane. Her hands were wrinkled a bit, from the cold perhaps, and she clutched at her shawl as a wind rattled past her, sweeping dust into her vacant eyes.  
  
She looked at the desolate place that she had only begun to call home.  
  
It was a sad place, really, and it seemed lifeless compared to the hustle and bustle she was used to. The silence was overpowering, tangible. It was a threatening force that would, she felt, devour her and make her drown in memories that she wanted to erase. She had to get away from this blasted silence.  
  
The Pain, as she fondly called it, throbbed.  
  
Down the street, where the steady line of houses stopped for a moment, like a gap in a soldier-line at war, she heard the unmistakable rattle of a playground swing. She wondered, for a moment, why there weren't more children playing, since she knew there was a playground for them. And the thought was immediately followed why this lone child was braving the unspoken law that prevented happiness from seeping through to them, why was this child. . . whoever it was. . . human in this place that looked as though it could not nurture a human soul?  
  
As she quickened her pace to see exactly who it was playing by themselves, and half wondering if they'd want her company, the playground with it's overgrown grass and rickety slide, came into view. She wanted to smile, all of a sudden, as the brave 'child' turned out to be a man. But, she also felt the urge to turn tail and run, because here was a man who, she knew, could make her wake up from the trance she plunged into.  
  
The Pain, that by now has a rhythmic beating, stopped for a second and resumed its pace.  
  
Severus Snape was looking up at the sky, swinging back and forth, on the swing. A solitary shadow, as always. She deduced that he probably didn't want her company. . . and she dreaded his. . . so she turned to leave, stepping and breaking a twig as she did.  
  
Severus looked at her, startled by the sound that echoed, being cradled by the houses that flanked the over-grown playground on both sides. He stood up. She turned back to face him, and another gust of wind suddenly made her shiver.  
  
His brow creased slightly, but his face otherwise did not change.  
  
Some force held her to her spot, perhaps it was the fact that her Potions Master was looking at her with a glint in his eye that told her that he wanted to tell her something. His face was stone carved with facial features that belied little about him, but, slowly, he drew a breath. He was so cold, this man, that she wondered if he was capable of feeling . . . though she knew already that he was.  
  
"I would like to offer my apologies again. I am sorry, Miss Granger." His brisk, monotone, business like tone unnerved her. It was too damn calm, like the silence that wanted to enfold her into its being and make her drown in living memories.  
  
She blinked.  
  
". . . for presuming that you would want to talk to me after . . . the ordeal . . . I should not have forced you. I . . . apologize."  
  
The sky above them was slowly growing darker, creeping up on them was a cloud that overtook the light that enveloped them. . . taking away the warmth . . . . and replacing it with a chilling cold.  
  
She did not know how to react, what to say, how to say it so she remained silent.  
  
"Albus merely . . . foolishly . . . believed that I could help you in more ways than a conventional healer could. Miss Granger, he was wrong."  
  
She did not notice the slight hitch to his voice, the slight waver, his almost blinking eyes, and his half balled hand hanging limply at his side. She did not notice the aura of melancholy that surrounded him . . . or his slight frown as he stated this.  
  
"you told me that you do not want to be helped."  
  
Again, the pain throbbed, giving a weak approval.  
  
"Yes . . . professor." She answered lamely.  
  
She could not understand any of this. Her potions master, Professor Snape, was sent to help her. It disgusted her . . . how he could understand her position.  
  
He gave her a curt nod and started to walk towards her. The heavens suddenly let out a loud belch of thunder. She covered her ears. He was level with her, his eyes averted from her face staring ahead.  
  
"But, it is my duty to inform you." He paused, weighing his words carefully. ". . . nothing was your fault. It will not matter, any of this, if you do not want it to. You were saved, Miss Granger, it is not wise to be selfish and throw away what others have given you. Or what others have saved for you. Everyone deserved to be saved, Miss Granger. Do not forget that."  
  
She was determinedly trying to keep her fist from shaking, trying to control her rage. The Pain's ache was moved to the background for a second as she focused her energy on controlling her temper. HOW.DARE.HE.IMPLY.THAT.I.SHOULD.BE.GREATFUL.TO.HIM.FOR.SAVING.ME. Another clap of thunder and a long white streak of lightning went unnoticed in the background as she savored the feel of her nails digging into her palm . . . and the white hot fury that burned in her.  
  
She did not notice the rustle of cloak beside her.  
  
She only looked up when she realized that he had given her his cloak, and it was draped across her shoulders. It was still warm, she noticed and looked up at him, fury forgotten for a moment, at least.  
  
"It will be raining soon, Miss Granger. You are already cold. Come in before the rain starts."  
  
He looked away from her and started the journey towards Grimauld Place, his stride was even, as was his pace, and her mind conjured for her, his billowing black cloak that was now draped, lifeless, on her shoulder.  
  
He did not look back.  
  
The Pain jolted her back to her senses.  
  
"Professor . . ." she said to no one. Perhaps, she had just imagined it . . . perhaps she did not even see it.  
  
This time, the underestimated thunder clap gave its loudest applause and reminded her about the impending rain. She remembered her fury of moments before, but that did not seem so important right now. Perhaps she had just imagined what she thought she saw, for a moment, in her Potion Master's eyes : Concern.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
He coiled his arm around the swing's chain, and for a moment, wanted to give into the desire to be a child again and experience the limited flying sensation this muggle contraption could offer.  
  
He had allowed Miss Granger free leave to go outside, provided she did not wander too far.  
  
He had been wrong, he knew, almost forcing her to tell him about her ordeal. It was not right to push . . . to dig in wounds deeper when they've hardly healed. He should berate himself more often.  
  
"Albus, you damn senile old man." He murmured under his breath, staring up at the sky. "I can not help her, I do not even have a valid reason to try." He smirked. No, he had the perfect reason.  
  
Last night . . . he wandered at his memories. They were too vivid. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
He held himself.  
  
"Yes, Miss Granger will attempt suicide."  
  
He took a deep, steadying breath to calm himself, and went to his desk, uncovering a bottle of whiskey and a small glass. He filled the glass and drank it in a gulp, closing his eyes, and immediately seeing visions of Miss Granger trying to take her own life. Gruesome images of mangled bodies and bloody knives.  
  
He walked out of his room, trying to find his way into the kitchen . . . to a bathroom . . . somewhere he could empty the contents of his stomach.  
  
He reached an open door and pulled it open .. . only to find himself in the drawing room. Now, it was filled with dirty, cloth-covered portraits. Some lined its walls but most were set upon the floor.  
  
He was disoriented, and flopped himself down to the dusty ground, hugging his knees with his eyes closed, half wishing that the visions would depart. Another part of him wanted them to stay . . perhaps he could prevent it from ever happening . . . nothing was certain.  
  
What would she do? Would she try to use an Unforgivable on herself? No, she would pass out in the middle of the process and it would never kill her. Would she slit her throat, an old effective muggle way of suicide . . . . he doubted Miss Granger would resort to that. No, she'd seen too much blood in the Last War. What then?  
  
He stopped himself, and clutched his stomach.  
  
No!  
  
Suddenly, he felt lightheaded and it seemed like his head was inflated to three times its original size. He stumbled on his knees and reeled. He fell, grasping a dirty sheet right next to him, in his attempt to hold on to something . . . anything . . . that would stop his fall. The sheet covered a portrait of a woman . . . that had black hair . . . and eyes that stared ahead of her . . . alive with fury . . .  
  
"SIRRRRIUUUUUUUUUS!"  
  
It was Black's mother. His head was spinning, and his logical mind was out of his reach somewhere beyond the dizzying pain that surrounded and clouded his mind constantly. He dimly remembered the portrait . . . how Albus had finally removed it and moved it to this room along with every other Black portrait in the house. He remembered the woman's screams when she found out her son had died . . . how happy she was.  
  
"SIRIUS IS GONE! TRAITORS WOULD DIE, SURELY, BY A TRAITOR'S HAND! HE DESERVED TO DIE! YOU ALL SEE?! TRAITORS, BLOOD TRAITORS DIE!"  
  
Then, came the woman's maniac laughter, her absurd glee at her son's death.  
  
He simply waited for his mind to clear, for his head to stop spinning, for the portrait to stop screaming.  
  
To his surprise, it did.  
  
"Severus Snape, the GREAT SNAKE HIMSELF!"  
  
He did not pay attention to it, he did not want to confront the woman.  
  
"SEVERUS SNAPE! You were the one my son loathed in school! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! He hated you, you know because he knew that you, YOU, the smelly GIT AS HE CALLED YOU, would have made his parents prouder than he ever could!"  
  
Miss Granger . . . how? He tried to cling on to his thoughts before, tried to cup his thoughts, tried to gather them to him and think again. His thoughts drained away. It was like trying to hold on to water with cupped hands. He needed to . . .  
  
"SEVERUS SNAPE! The PROUD SLYTHERIN PUREBLOOD that HATED MUDBLOODS AS MY SON WAS SUPPOSED TO! He hated you! HE HATED YOU! You made your parents proud, didn't you, SNAPE?! I wished then that you could have been MY son instead! BUT NOW . . . LOOK AT YOU! TURNING TRAITOR AND SIDING WITH DUMBLEDORE."  
  
He was trying not to listen. His thoughts were clearing . . . Miss Granger . . . attempting suicide . . . how? He felt slightly better.  
  
"YOU SICKEN ME, BOTH OF YOU, SNAPE . . . YOU AND BLACK! You SICKEN ME! both of you were taught how to hate the mudbloods, how unworthy they are. THAT WAS GIVEN TO YOU AT BIRTH, YOU TRAITORS, SCUM!. YOU . . . PEOPLE LIKE YOU WHO DISGRACE THE WIZARD NAME . . . YOU SICKEN ME! HELPING MUDBLOODS! YOU SICKEN ME!"  
  
He stood up, shaking, furious.  
  
"MY PARENTS TAUGHT ME TO HATE! THEY NEVER SAID ANYTHING ABOUT WHO TO LOVE, OR TO TRUST!"  
  
He grabbed the sheet that lay on the floor, and covered the portrait with it, muffling the woman's screams and curses that followed him down as he reached the landing and corridor to his bedroom. It was not wise for him to listen to that woman because now, she had awakened something in him that he thought he'd been able to kill.  
  
"Mudblood Granger wants to die."  
  
His upbringing had taught him one thing: Mudbloods should die, they deserve it. Now, he was fighting to save one?  
  
He smirked. At least, he could do this to honor his parents.  
  
"For you, mum!" he drank the cup of whiskey he poured himself. Sarcasm was thick in his voice and grim determination was visible on his face that was, even now, veiled by the darkness.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
Revenge. He had the perfect reason indeed. He was unaware of anything else for a while, as he stared at the dull blue heavens that, he guessed, was ready to cry.  
  
A twig cracked somewhere, and he turned to see Miss Granger with her back to him, obviously ready to leave . . . but she turned around and faced him. Her face was weary, grim. But it was her eyes that drew his gaze. Empty. Almost lifeless. He had seen eyes like that stare back at him once before. Eyes that were not chocolate brown but dark, black orbs.  
  
His own eyes as he looked into a mirror.  
  
He felt an unfamiliar twinge somewhere below his left breast. He understood something at last. Perhaps, he thought, Miss Granger felt something like he did when he first realized the guilt all his deeds in the Dark Revel brought. She felt something like the time he first felt a dead weight bearing down upon him from sheer misery. Then, he wanted to forget that he himself did those things . . . he wanted to forget that he himself was responsible and he did those horrible acts full willing. He wanted so much to forget, but he couldn't.  
  
At one point, he wanted to destroy himself as punishment.  
  
Perhaps . . . she felt the same way. If she did, he thought, then she wouldn't want to be saved, to continue living knowing and believing that you would never be able to atone for your sins, that you would never be as pure as those around you . . . and never wanting to be part of them again, afraid to stain them with your blood-caked hands.  
  
He fell, once too. Albus saved him then. Albus made him understand that he could still do something to redeem himself in his own eyes. That was why he became the spy that he was, but what about her? How could he unburden her, how could he make her see that she can do something to save herself?  
  
How could he help her save herself, now that he knew he could not save her again?  
  
She did not want to be saved by him, he knew.  
  
"I am sorry, Miss Granger."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
He walked back up to Grimauld Place, eyes fixed ahead. The heavens gave another rumbling laugh and the long, white finger lit up the sky momentarily. His footsteps echoed on the pavement.  
  
He had another reason, now, to save her. Not for revenge, no, as a tribute to his salvation. He suddenly found the urge, the desire, the will to save her, to carry her away from her pain and suffering. He suddenly had the urge to protect her the way he felt protected. He owed it to her, he felt, to help save her as he was saved . . . once.  
  
A tribute to his salvation, he will save another, if only to see that he could bring salvation as well.  
  
"Albus, you senile old man." He shook his head.  
  
He owed it to her to bring her out of her darkness into the light as he was brought out once. Everyone deserved to be saved.  
  
He opened the well-oiled door and stepped inside the doorway, turning around he saw Miss Granger walking down towards him, his cloak billowing behind her. She looked wraithlike with a background of the gods' war painted behind her. He waited for her to reach the door, and as she entered, he stepped aside. She took of his cloak and handed it to him.  
  
"Thank you, Professor."  
  
Together, they headed down to the kitchen, where he called Dobby to prepare a meal for them.  
  
"But, Professor, I'm not hungry. Really."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
The truth was, she was starving, but she did not want to spend another minute with Professor Snape. She was afraid of him, in a sense, because he understood her too much.  
  
Everyone deserves to be saved. Damn him, she thought, as what she feared started to bubble inside her: doubt.  
  
At first, she had been furious, being the proud Gryffindor that she was, but she later saw the truth in his words. Yes, she was selfish for not dwelling on the fact that she survived, yes, she was wasting whatever effort he exerted in trying to save her . . . trying to befriend her. Worst of all, she knew, Professor Snape who had once been a Death Eater, had survived more ordeals. She had no right to---  
  
She stopped her thoughts as the Pain gave a nasty throb of apprehension.  
  
She must stay away from him . . . he was already succeeding. She will not let Professor Snape deter her. Her Gryffindor courage kicked in, and she set her mind to it. When she decides to do something, she does it. She tried to convince herself that she needed death, but doubt had already burned a hole through her resolve. She had felt that this was going to happen. She had to stay away, force herself not to listen.  
  
Does she deserve death?  
  
Mental pictures of the Grim Reaper from old horror movies flashed in her mind. The Reaper wielding his mighty scythe.  
  
She shook her head.  
  
"Miss Granger?"  
  
She looked up, and saw that Professor Snape had sat down opposite her on the small scrub table and was looking over at her, sitting motionless before a veritable feast, considering that there were only two people who were about to eat.  
  
"Eat. You need to eat, Miss Granger. You need to gain back your strength, though your body is fully healed, it still needs nutrition. Eat."  
  
She picked up her fork and started to pile food on her plate, refusing to look up at him. How though, she mused, was he going to save her? Exactly how, she asked herself, would a man be able to stop someone from taking their own life? She smiled secretly to herself as she found no answer to her question, she hoped he would not be able to.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
**TBC  
  
btw: I only plan on having 2 more chapters to this fic up. Hehe, the next one contains part of how he saves her and the last one, well, is a continuation.  
  
PLEASE READ AND REVIEW**


	5. chapter five: all suicide victims want

**A/n: first off, SO SORRY THE FIFTH CHAPTER TOOK SO DAMN LONG!**

**disclaimer: look at chapter 1-2**

**a/n: I'm REALLY sorry, you guys, but, I promise the sixth chapter will be coming out soon. I promise. **

****

**PLEASE READ AND REVIEW**

****

**CHAPTER FIVE: ALL SUICIDE VICTIMS EVER WANT**

Time seemed to hold it's breath, the whole room was shaking with anticipation as the liquid flowed down into the girl's throat.

**the muggle stories always ended**

**with a dawning realization**

**that all the suicide victim really wanted**

**was to be pulled back from the edge.**

"NO!"

**they always titter ... a bait**

**that lures Death**

**with his scythe raised**

**ready to strike... **

Snape's mouth was agape. OVERDOSE. He recalled an article in the Opinions Section in the Daily Prophet that ridiculed muggle suicide methods. One was overdose. Primitive – the article had branded it – but very damn effective.

For a painless death.

But she had done more. He snuck a peak at the deep knife-wound and flinched. Blood, in extraordinary amounts, was pouring out, never ceasing. Profuse bleeding. He saw the knife she was holding – wax characters on the crimson-covered blade.

A MAGICAL BLADE?

"Hermione ... what have you done to-- "

But he stopped.

And remembered his own reasons.

The inadequate pain tolerance and the feeling of hopelessness eating you up from the inside in. it was torture and the only way you felt you could lessen it's hold on you was to make a hole for it to seep out.

And it flowed out too, scarlet fingers tracing your body, flowing out to become a puddle on the floor.

**I don't want to close my eyes**

**and instead of seeing**

**a comforting blank blanket of**

**pure embracing black –**

**I see scenes of nights I fought to**

**Forget. Hands dashing back and forth**

**Over a fleshy plain –**

**Roaming, searching, groping . . .**

**PAIN.**

I don't want to go to sleep anymore.

The girl beat her hands against his chest – in weak protest – giving each almost delicate shove her strength. Repulsion coursed through her as his body's compromising position forced her to relive scenes that flashed before her eyes.

She was choking.

She grabbed at his robes, pulling his face closer to hers. She could not see properly. She heard his ragged breathing next to her.

"Leave – me—alone ..." 

He pushed her hands off of him, continuing his string of spells and charms and chants and difficult versus accompanied by various hand movements. Inside his head a thought kept resounding like a bell tolling, a painful reminder of Midnight and fear: **EVERYBODY DESERVED TO BE SAVED!**

He tilted her head slightly, bringing a cup of water to her lips and tipping it in to encourage her. She spat it out, blood starting to blossom from her mouth. She choked harder. The voice screamed louder. He was beginning to panic.

At a moment of desperation, as though the complete lack of solutions to his problem was choking him, forcing him to turn to basic survival instincts, he threw back his head and let out a yell – a cry for help, the only cry for help he has and ever will speak. And ... it was never for himself.

"LIVE!"

He gathered her body in his arms and brought them to the table, pushing away potion making ingredients, a cauldron and the girl's wand. He shoved them all to the floor violently.

"LIVE!" he commanded the girl, gently cradling her head now as he climbed on top of the table to her. He placed her head on his lap and picked up his wand and started his chanting, almost like a mantra now, a string of spells – all the spells – he believed would heal her.

"you bloody silly girl"

He looked at her pallid complexion and hated the color of her lifeless skin so much like his. He saw the wound that almost belched out blood below her lower left breast. Why didn't she aim for her heart? Perhaps, he answered trying his best to contain his tears, it was because she wanted to let the monster come out first, the pain that throbbed only within her – opening her human-skin like unzipping a bag – to be able to feel how it was when the pain didn't exist.

He breathed in, slowly, deeply, as a tear traced it's way down his cheek. DAMN.

He tried to collect his thoughts, turn them to the old, dusty volumes that he studied about the dark arts and the different forms of torture, he tried to focus on Magic Blade wounds. He remembered a fogy chapter about how a Magical Blade wound WOULD NOT HEAL until the torturer muttered a protected counter-curse. For someone besides the sadist to heal such a wound, they would need to find the counter-curse to stop the blood-flow – this was the very difficult part.

WHY MUST THIS GIRL BE SO DAMN INTELLIGENT?

He looked at Hermione's face and willed her eyes to open, willed with every fiber of his being that she was not the strong willed Gryffindor, determined to die. He wished, he willed for her to open her eyes and mutter the counter-curse. But she did not. So much for wishing.

Her arms were crossed across her chest. He only had to imagine her holding a bouquet of white lilies, and to be dressed in a white gown for her to mirror death. She had stopped struggling and lay quiet within the half circle of his limp arms.

Slowly, though he knew the timing was horrendous, he remembered her before, in Hogwarts, as she was. Spirited, the reincarnation of Rowena Ravenclaw with the heart and courage of Godric Gryffindor – the sympathy of Helga Hufflepuff and the cunning of Salazar Slytherin. It had been destiny, in a way, for her to end up loving the Potter-brat.

He stopped.

He stopped caring, stopped trying to remember and concentrated on the fact that he has failed – failed to heal the only person he knew he could understand, and at this point, he knew could understand him. He had failed.

"Is it time -- " he mused loudly "– to give up?"

Hermione was sinking deeper into a blanket that enclosed her, embracing her, protecting her from the horrible throbbing pain that was draining away with her ability to feel. She could see Snape looking at her, staring blankly, saw his eyes mist over and even felt the flutter-kiss of a tear falling on her hand. She remembered him clutching her hand.

Her vision was slowly disappearing like she was.

There was an enclosing darkness like going underwater, it was almost like drowning, drowning within yourself, drowning in memories you conjured up.

She saw herself kissing Harry for the first time, on his broomstick, right after his 7th year victory of winning the house cup.

She saw Harry smiling, his green eyes were shining.

She saw Harry and Ron walking away from her, saw Harry turn back and wave.

She saw Harry ...

She almost saw a thought flutter by. Suddenly, the almost ultimate black above her glowed and became golden, majestic, like the rising of the sun.

She was stuck somewhere in the darkness, not calling out, almost lifeless.

She smiled, entrapped within herself.

She was, she believed, about to see Harry again. And this time, she'd feel him too.

Somewhere above her, she faintly heard a loud, jubilant cry, but she didn't care as she was lost.

TBC...

**PLEASE READ AND REVIEW**


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